


Letters

by PhoenixAccio



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: (just as a warning), Dissociation, Emetophobia, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Panic Attacks, Post-Tanker Incident (Metal Gear), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Victim Blaming, hal i am BEGGING you to stop blaming yourself for this, is it victim blaming if the victim is blaming themself?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27226453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixAccio/pseuds/PhoenixAccio
Summary: On the Metal Gear wiki, it says Hal and Julie kept in touch through letters after Hal left. I cannot imagine that would have been anything but terrible for his mental health. Now that he has some distance, the reminder of what happened hits even harder.
Relationships: Otacon/Solid Snake
Comments: 1
Kudos: 39





	Letters

Hal had been getting better, he'd been improving! He could sleep in the same room as Dave, now, and he hardly ever had nightmares, at least not ones he remembered. He hadn't had a panic attack in weeks, even when he'd dropped a plate in the kitchen while washing the dishes. He was fine, right? He would have been fine, if it weren't for that _stupid_ letter. 

It had been a terrible idea to stay in this apartment. Hal should have known it would be an issue, Dave had _asked_ him if he was sure it was okay, and Hal had said it was. He didn't really want to stay there, but it wasn't like they had much choice. They'd needed somewhere to stay, and the apartment was the only place they could get on such short notice. It would be selfish of Hal to say they couldn't stay there just because of his _stupid_ hangups. 

On the second day, though, once they were settled, when Dave checked the mailbox and found a small stack of letters with Hal's name on the front in that sickeningly familiar handwriting, Hal had had to come to terms with the concept of admitting his weakness to Dave. 

Or, that's what he should have done. Hal was selfish, though, and he didn't want to give Dave any more incentive to ditch his useless ass, so he had forced down the bile rising in his throat and taken the letters, thanking Dave mechanically and forcing a smile. 

He'd never even opened the letters. Hal had picked up the envelope on the top of the stack to open it, but then his eyes had gotten stuck on the neat looping curve of _her_ writing, sickeningly familiar as it formed his name. He was dizzy, he had realized, and his hands were shaking violently. Allowing the letter to fall to the floor, Hal had jerked to his feet and bolted, vision blurred, to the en-suite bathroom, where he curled shuddering over the toilet to empty his stomach, continuing to gag past when all that came up was bile. He was still trembling, hands white-knucked on the toilet's yellowing plastic seat. Hal heaved again, unproductively. He felt numb, his mind foggy and blank. He was overreacting, he knew he was, they were just _letters,_ it wasn't like she was here, it wasn't like he'd just come home from school, and his dad was still at work, and E.E. was in her room, and- 

Hal gagged into the toilet again, coughing painfully. What was _wrong_ with him? He was sitting here feeling sorry for himself because of choices _he'd_ made. It was his choices that had killed one person and permanently traumatized another, and he was sitting here feeling sorry for himself because his actions had had consequences. 

Hal rested his forehead against the toilet seat, not caring about how disgusting that was. He should get up, he knew, should make himself useful, but his body felt like dead weight, legs leaden and useless beneath him. Hal laughed breathily at the symmetry. His face was wet. 

He barely even jumped when the door opened, wondering absently why he hadn't heard footsteps. There was a shadow over him. He knew he should respond. 

"'m sorry, 'm hoggin' th' bathroom," Hal mumbled through uncooperative lips. 

"Hal," said the person casting the shadow. Not _her,_ Hal thought dully. A man. American. Not his father either, who... 

"D'v'..." Hal said faintly. Right. Hal probably wasn't getting kicked out since it was his apartment, but who knew after this? Hal wouldn't blame him. 

Hal realized Dave had been speaking to him when a broad hand covered his shoulder. Hal felt bad when the contact made his skin crawl. Dave didn't deserve that. He wasn't disgusting like Hal was. 

"Hal?" Dave said again, and Hal sighed, twitching slightly, wishing he could will his body to actually acknowledge Dave properly. 

"Hal, I'm going to take you to bed, okay?" Dave asked, and suddenly his voice was doubled, an undertone of an accented female voice saying the same thing, one hundred different ways. Hal's heart raced in his chest, although he knew trying to resist was pointless with his body limp and dead. Broad hands ~~slender hands, with a ring~~ were under Hal's knees and around his back, and he was off the floor, now, against someone's chest. Hal was shaking, she hated when he did that, but he couldn't stop, he couldn't-- 

The bed was under him, belly-up and horribly open. The mattress shifted beside Hal. He shouldn't worry, shouldn't be scared, she would make it better ~~she never made it better.~~ Hal's eyes prickled again, vision blurring. He held his eyes open, hoping the tears would leave. 

"Hal?" came a voice. The deep one from before, he couldn't remember... 

"Hal, it's Dave." Oh, right, that was it. "Hal, we're in your apartment right now. We're safe. Nobody else is here." 

Dave's voice was smooth and calm, rhythmically reassuring. This wasn't usually what happened. Hal didn't think he liked it, he preferred predictability. 

"Hey, Hal, I'm with you, you're safe. Nobody is going to hurt you, I promise." That was silly, Hal thought, she never _hurt_ him. _He_ was the one who hurt people. 

There was a hand in his hair, and Hal let out a scared little squeak, flinching as much as his too-heavy body allowed. _Stupid,_ Hal thought, heart in his throat, but the hand pulled away as if burned at the sound, and no anger followed it. There was talking again, but Hal wasn't paying attention. 

"--not sure what happened," the voice was saying as if underwater, "but it's over now, Hal, you're safe. I promise. Nobody is going to touch you without your permission. I'm really sorry I did, I wasn't thinking." 

Hal wasn't expecting the apology, didn't deserve it, he knew he didn't. The tears that had been building up in his eyes finally decided to fall, whether Hal liked it or not, but Dave (it was Dave who was beside him he knew Dave Dave was safe) didn't yell at him or tell him he was being a baby. There was a hand beside his, but not touching. Hal knew it was Dave's, nobody else radiated heat like that (enhanced metabolism, his brain offered helpfully.) 

With immense effort, Hal twitched his hand over to half-cover Dave's. He needed an anchor, he knew that would help. He made a noise, and it didn't mean anything, but he hoped Dave would understand. To his relief, Dave got it. His hand turned over under Hal's to grasp it gently, rough fingers brushing carefully over Hal's knuckles. This was okay, this was unfamiliar, so unlike _back then_ that it actually helped. 

Gradually, Hal began to come back to himself, entire mind focused on the hand around his as he tried to calm himself down. He felt the ghosts of skin against his, but none were as real as Dave's touch. Hal breathed. He was okay. 

Finding he could move again, Hal curled up on his side, facing Dave. The older man was sitting on the bed, legs folded into a neat pretzel in a pose that seemed too young for Dave's imposing form. When Hal looked up to him, Dave smiled. 

"Hey," he said softly, in what Hal could tell was an attempt not to startle him back into his previous state. 

Hal knew he wouldn't be able to reply, but offered something that may or may not have been recognizable as a smile in return. He was still shaking, Hal realized, tremors much more noticeable as the static cleared from his limbs. His face felt cold with what he knew were evaporating tears, and the watery distortion of his vision told him his face wouldn't stay dry for long. He probably looked completely disgusting, and the thought had Hal releasing a short, hissing breath, facsimile of laughter. 

"I'm sorry," Dave said, which was silly because Hal was the one who should have been apologizing. He shook his head at Dave, dismissing it. He didn't need to be sorry Hal was like this. 

Dave's fingers were rubbing over Hal's knuckles now, and it should not have been so reassuring to feel those gun callouses against his skin. It was completely unfamiliar, though, and it felt like the safest thing there, in that miserable apartment that he'd had since sixteen. Dave's hands felt like protection, and Hal had never felt anything like them.

Gradually, Hal's heartrate slowed completely, and he slipped into sleep, hand still wrapped in Dave's. 

When he woke up, the letters were nowhere to be seen. There was a glass of water and an ibuprofen on his bedside table, and or the duration of their stay in that wretched place, Hal never saw another one of those letters.


End file.
